


mock me with praise

by nanasekei



Series: Happy Steve Bingo 2019 Fills [10]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Ultimates
Genre: (not a lot but it's there), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Disabled Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Steve Bingo, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Nightmares, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, internalized ableism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:33:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21726073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanasekei/pseuds/nanasekei
Summary: “You should rest. I… I have a quite comfortable couch, you know.”Steve widened his eyes. “No,” he replied harshly, so blunt that Stark seemed taken aback, which somehow prompted him to add, a little lighter, “There’s no need.”“You can’t sleep on the floor, darling,” Stark argued. The nickname, as always, fueled fire in Steve’s chest, and he wanted to run away and also to fight Stark at the same time. “Come on. I owe you.”-After waking up in a frenzy from a nightmare, Steve ends up locking himself out of his apartment. His hallway neighbor offers some help.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: Happy Steve Bingo 2019 Fills [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1485866
Comments: 73
Kudos: 635
Collections: Happy Steve Bingo 2019





	mock me with praise

**Author's Note:**

> For my "Comfort from nightmares" square from Happy Steve Bingo. As always, thanks to Ferret for the beta!

Steve rested his back against the door. His body was shaking, and his knees bent against his will – so frail now, so broken -, making him slip to the ground. He shut his eyes forcefully, inhaling sharply even as he felt no air reaching his lungs.

 _Get yourself together_ , he thought, unable to move. _Get up_.

He didn’t, though. He was still shivering, and he forced himself to try another breath.

It was only then that he realized he was locked outside.

He cursed, fist pushing back to slam against the door in a way he would never admit how painful it felt. _God fucking damn it,_ he thought, with only the slightest spark of guilt at the blasphemy. What the hell was _wrong_ with him? Those things weren’t supposed to _happen_ anymore.

It had been just a dream. Just a stupid dream, and…

He shouldn’t still be dreaming of it. So much time had passed.

It was the email’s fault, Steve knew. All this time – nearly a year without speaking – and Bucky chose to send him an email.

The goal was, in Bucky’s words, to catch up. He and Gail were doing fine, the email said, but they – Jesus fucking Christ – _missed_ Steve. They wanted to know how he was doing – was he still working at Fury’s? – and they hoped he was doing well.

Bucky was, as he said in the email’s last line, _worried_ about him.

Steve’s fist slammed against the door again. Rationally, he imagined Bucky didn’t mean for the message to sound as it did – _leaking_ pity – but he couldn’t help but imagine: the two of them in that big house, holding each other, chatting about their routine, when Steve’s name came up, and a look of sadness crossed their faces, and maybe Gail said _darling, maybe you should…_

This time, a creaking noise followed the slam of his hand. The pain was good – it kept him grounded, white sparks dissolving the picture of Bucky and Gail, though only temporarily.

A voice took him out of his momentary pleasure. “…Darling? Are you okay?”

The endearment made Steve widen his eyes, even though he _should_ have known, right off the bat, who it was.

And, sure enough, there was Stark, standing across the hallway, tilting his head towards Steve as if he was actually worried.

Steve hurried to straighten his back. His hand reached back, searching for support from the wall as he struggled to get back to his feet, because – of fucking course – his cane had stayed in his bedroom, abandoned when he jolted awake and ran outside like a lunatic.

“Do you need help?” Stark asked.

“I’m fine,” Steve hissed, finally managing to clumsily get himself to stand up. God, he hated that cane. Hated having to use it, and, more than anything, how helpless he became without it.

Only then, he realized he had probably woken Stark up.

He stared ahead. Stark was wearing a dark red robe that didn’t seem fit for anything other than going to bed, at least in Steve’s opinion. Though, God knew Stark wasn’t a stranger to going out in inappropriate or revealing clothes, so maybe he _could_ be heading out – it was only his unusually messy hair that convinced Steve that the man had probably been sleeping.

Steve blinked. That was a little unusual. Stark was rarely at home in the middle of the night, spending most of his time at trashy, decadent parties. Well—Steve had never been to one of them, so that was mostly his own guess, but it was a reasonable one, considering the companions Stark seemed to take to his apartment every other night. They would leave in the morning, nearly bumping onto Steve as they hurried towards the elevator, men and women with red eyes and clothing that seemed to be worth more than Steve’s rent, even if it didn’t cover much skin at all.

“You don’t _seem_ fine, darling,” Stark drawled, and Steve was startled by his clear, sober voice– another rarity. “If you don’t mind me saying.”

Steve gritted his teeth. “Just leave it.”

Stark didn’t move. Instead, he studied Steve with those impossible to read blue eyes of his.

His eyelashes were obscenely long for a man, Steve thought, distantly, his face heating. The thought angered him slightly, as if Stark had somehow forced him to think it.

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” he said, and Steve opened his mouth to argue, but he was interrupted by a loud meowing sound coming from Stark’s apartment. “Oh, shush, you. As if you don’t already know it’s him.”

Stark’s cat ignored him, sliding under his legs to peek at Steve behind Stark’s calf. He seemed to want to move closer, but Stark stayed firm, a barrier between him and the door.

It was a wise choice. The cat escaped the apartment enough already – Steve had lost count of how many times he came across the furry thing in the hallway, or even, once, down the fire escape stairs.

It was the only reason he'd talked to Stark in the first place. After the third time he found the cat wandering around, Steve had marched to the apartment and nearly slammed down the door, ready to rip his neighbor a new one, because if you chose to have a pet, then you'd better be responsible and _take care_ of the damn thing.

Stark had opened the door, the strong smell of alcohol immediately following him, squinting his eyes at Steve as Steve ranted at him furiously. Stark just stared, as if he couldn’t quite make sense of him. Then his gaze lowered to find the cat in Steve’s arms, and his face had brightened in a smile, and he thanked Steve profusely, calling him _darling_.

“Are you locked outside?” Stark asked, tilting his head.

Steve clenched his jaw. He wanted to deny it, but it would be too obvious a lie, and he didn’t want to give Stark a reason to keep prodding. “Yeah,” he grunted. “But it’s fine. I’ll—I’ll call a locksmith.”

Stark raised an eyebrow. “It’s almost two a.m., sweetheart.”

Steve wanted to punch him. “I know that,” he said, attempting to put his hands in his pockets only to remember he was wearing his old, ratty pajama pants. God, what a picture he must have painted for Stark’s eyes – the crippled neighbor who couldn’t even remember to grab his keys when he left the house. “I’ll call one in the morning.”

“And in the meantime, what will you do? Sleep in the hallway?” Stark asked. Sobriety made his voice sound warmer, Steve noticed. There was no trace of the sharp sarcasm he could have sometimes, when he was slurring out words. “You should rest. I… I have a quite comfortable couch, you know.”

Steve widened his eyes. “No,” he replied harshly, so blunt that Stark seemed taken aback, which somehow prompted him to add, a little lighter, “There’s no need.”

“You can’t sleep on the floor, darling,” Stark argued. The nickname, as always, fueled fire in Steve’s chest, and he wanted to run away and also to fight Stark at the same time. “Come on. I owe you.”

The words startled Steve a bit, even though rationally, he knew it made sense. He had run into Stark in the hallway so many times – locked out, or too wasted to get himself inside his own apartment – and he couldn’t just _leave_ him there. Stark’s behavior was abhorrent, but nobody deserved that, or at least Steve thought so - and so he had allowed Stark to sleep on his couch a few times, and dragged him back to his own apartment when he couldn’t do it on his own. Holding Stark’s head when he was throwing up his guts in the toilet was far from Steve’s idea of a pleasant evening, but, well, someone had to do it. And it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do, anyway.

Steve took a steadying breath. He felt foolish – now that he was actually starting to calm down, his reaction to a simple bad dream seemed nothing short of pathetic. The images of the dream dissolved slowly, fading like old pictures, and all that was left was a strong, almost overwhelming sense of embarrassment.

He desperately wanted to get inside and forget about that ridiculous show he had given Stark in the middle of the night. But, of course, he couldn’t.

“Anthony will be so happy to have you around,” Stark insisted. Steve rolled his eyes – he vehemently refused to refer to Stark’s cat as anything else. “Please. I’ll give you fluffy pillows.”

Steve’s mouth curled, and he wanted to tell Stark he didn’t _want_ any damn pillows, but…

God, was he tired. He worked a double shift at the store during the day, which was already mentally exhausting without taking into account that he had insisted on helping a few customers to the car with their bags, which had been a strain in his back. It was almost like a betrayal, that a bad dream had caught up to him in a night where he should’ve slept like a baby from sheer exhaustion, and now Steve yearned to get back to his bed and continue where the nightmare forced him to leave off.

Besides, Stark was right. He _did_ owe him.

“Fine,” he said then, regretting instantly when Stark smiled at him, stirring up Steve’s stomach.

Stark stepped aside, gesturing for Steve to follow him, and as Steve set foot inside the apartment, his face heated. He looked down both sides of the hallway to make sure no one had caught him in the act.

 _What act_? he forced himself to think, as he followed Stark to the living room. He wasn’t doing anything inappropriate.

But he knew how that would look, from the outside. That was Stark’s usual M.O., wasn’t it? With all those men he brought home – men who carried themselves differently, poised as if they were important people, passing by Steve in the hallway as if he was a stain on the wall. Stark would look at them and smile that leering smile, call them _darling_ , tilt his head and…

Steve shook his head, trying to focus on the living room instead. Stark’s apartment was roomier than his, decorated with extravagant art pieces that hurt Steve’s eyeballs. There was cat hair everywhere, a testament to his lack of cleaning skills.

“Here.” Stark set up a pillow at one end of the couch, unraveling a blanket right over it. “Do you need anything else? A glass of water, maybe?”

Steve’s mouth did feel dry, but he decided he could stand it. “No,” he said. Then, he forced himself to mutter, “Thanks.”

Stark smiled, slow and knowing. “Anytime, darling.”

Steve clenched his hands into fists. He would never get used to Stark’s penchant for pet names. In his life, the only other person who had ever called him darling had been Gail.

That had been before, though. Before Steve had been drafted.

Before he… stayed behind.

The memory sent a shiver down his spine. Not wanting Stark to notice he was distraught, he turned quickly to the couch, hurrying to lie down.

The pillow was comfortable – so much more comfortable than Steve’s cheap, old futon. Steve wondered if Stark had picked it from his bed and immediately decided he shouldn’t think about that. He turned to the couch’s cushion, his back to Stark.

“Okay, then,” Stark said, and his voice was like honey, dripping with sweetness and a silky undertone that crawled under Steve’s shirt and made his breath feel short. “I’m going to bed now. Goodnight.” He turned off the lights, and the darkness seemed cold in contrast to his voice. “If you need anything, just let me know.”

 _I won’t_ , Steve thought, way too forceful for his own liking. He shut his eyes, not wanting to deal with the darkness around him. Even though Stark wasn’t looking at him – was going to his bedroom, if the distance in the sound of his steps was any indication - he felt exposed, as if he had been humiliated.

 _He doesn’t know why you locked yourself out_ , he thought, and it was true.

But Steve knew. He knew what he saw, what he heard. He shouldn’t have been having this dream, not anymore, but he did, and he had woken up in a jolt, trembling, desperate to get away, to _run_ …

And ran he had. Right into Tony Stark’s couch.

Steve took a deep breath, trying to stop his flow of thoughts. He still had work in the morning, he reminded himself. He should try to catch at least a couple hours of sleep.

A soft meowing sound announced Stark’s cat’s presence. Steve felt as it climbed next to him, curling in a warm ball next to his thighs.

He smiled reluctantly. Maybe he should push it away, but, just for now, the contact was comforting.

* * *

He woke up screaming.

The realization dawned on him only as Stark turned on the lights, and Steve couldn’t breathe, his gaze unfocused, chest heaving as he tried to calm himself down, to grasp onto reality, _it’s okay, it’s over, you came back_.

Steve’s hands hurt, and he realized he was clutching his elbows, embracing himself as he sat up on Stark’s couch. He had _felt it_ all over again – the pain, the fear, the excruciating heat – and although his eyes were open, it was as if his body hadn’t fully emerged yet, as if it was permanently trapped in the dream.

“Steve?” Stark called, and it vaguely occurred to Steve it was probably not the first time he'd done that. “Darling, _breathe_.”

Steve shuddered as he inhaled, his body starting to catch up to his newfound consciousness. He was shivering, a drop of cold sweat crossing his temple, and amidst it all he still found it within himself to feel ashamed, because apparently running away from his own apartment wasn’t _enough_ , no, he had to give Stark a show, had to make him witness first-hand how weak he was.

“I—” He meant to say _I’m fine_ , but the words didn’t come out.

A loud, high-pitched noise made him jolt, and Stark scowled at something behind his shoulder. “Stop that, for God’s sake,” he chastised, and he actually sounded _mad_ , which Steve had never seen before.

The cat meowed again, in defiance.

“Leave it,” Steve said when Stark attempted to shoo the cat away. He was still shaky, but he was slowly growing a little steadier, his mind grabbing onto details of the world around him to remind him that was where he was now, and not _there_. Not anymore.

Stark shifted, his body hovering over Steve in a way that made him feel strangely warm. He landed a hand on Steve’s shoulder, a light, hesitant touch. “Take a long breath, darling.” Steve obeyed, and Stark’s thumb drew an arch on his shoulder, sending a light shiver down Steve’s spine. Steve couldn’t help but look at it, and Stark immediately removed his hand, as if it had been burned. “Sorry,” he said, standing up. Steve had the insane impulse to ask him to come back. “I’ll get you a glass of water. Try to focus on breathing.”

Steve nodded, blinking slowly. His heart was pounding heavily, and his head hurt, a steady ache beginning to climb over his neck, as it had been beaten by a hammer.

He forced himself to inhale deeply, his mind a whirlwind of thought. Was that all because of Bucky’s email? Was a single message enough to send him in such a miserable spiral of memories, even after all this time?

He shut his eyes. Then, after a moment, he felt the couch shifting as Stark sat next to him.

“Here,” he said. Steve opened his eyes, and Stark raised a glass of water to his lips. The side of his body touched Steve’s, and Steve should have pushed him away, he _should_ , but the contact was steady and comforting and he felt too weak to do that. So instead he drank, taking long sips, only now realizing how dry his mouth was. “There you go.” Stark smiled, his eyes dark blue in the soft lighting, and that smile broke something inside Steve’s chest, something aching and scary and that, coming to think of it, was probably long broken already. “It’s over now. It’s okay.”

The words curled around Steve like a blanket. Not “it was only a dream.” _It’s over now_.

He finished drinking, taking the glass from Stark’s hand to take the final sip. The cold water helped to wake him up, like a breath of fresh air into his lungs.

He lowered the glass, focusing on inhaling and exhaling. At some point, he felt the warm, light touch of the cat rubbing its head against his calf.

“He adores you,” Stark said, sounding amused. Then, in a whisper Steve couldn’t be sure he wasn’t imagining, he added, “I can hardly blame him.”

Steve told himself he was definitely imagining it.

“I--” he stuttered. He meant to say everything was alright, to tell Stark to go to sleep, but he couldn’t make the words come out.

 _Focus_ , he thought. Inhale. Exhale.

“They thought I was dead,” he said instead, and although he knew he shouldn’t, saying it felt good, as if a weight was being removed from his back. “In—In Iraq. They—they thought I couldn’t have survived. My whole unit—”

Stark nodded, wordlessly. Steve was thankful he didn’t have to complete the sentence.

“There was an explosion,” he said. His memory of it was fuzzy, twisting and growing distorted under the enveloping, overwhelming memory of the after.

Everyone thought he was dead. Hell, he should have been. It had been a miracle he made his way back to the base, nearly a corpse, after almost five months lost. The sole survivor of a lost unit – and for what? There was nothing left for him at home, as he soon would find out.

“I had a fiancé,” he said. Why he was telling Stark all this, he didn’t know. But Stark didn’t seem to mind, nodding without any confusion, as if Steve’s words were making perfect sense. “She didn’t—” _She didn’t wait_ , he was going to say, but how fair was that, really? How long had Steve expected her to wait for a dead man? “She moved on.”

Bucky had attempted to talk to him, afterwards. He tried harder than Gail did. She only talked to Steve about it once, and though she apologized, when he asked if it would have been different if he came back sooner, she didn’t respond.

Stark didn’t say anything, and the silence stretched long enough for Steve to feel embarrassed. He parted his lips to speak, but then Stark’s hand hovered over him.

“May I?” he asked, and Steve was confused enough that he just nodded without thinking, and then Stark’s hand stroked his hair, brushing it back with long, calloused fingers. Steve’s face heated, but the touch loosened his muscles, the gentleness so foreign his eyes stung. He didn’t remember how long it had been since the last time someone had touched him like this, or at all.

Stark’s mouth curled as if he was fighting back a smile. His eyes sparkled with something Steve didn’t understand, and he continued caressing Steve’s hair, his hand descending down the side of Steve’s face to tuck a strand of it behind his ear.

“Steve, darling?” he asked, and for a moment he sounded so hesitant Steve couldn’t help but frown. He had never seen Stark seem hesitant about anything. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but… Would you like to sleep in bed with me?”

Steve blinked, momentarily too shocked for words. A rush of blood climbed over his neck, and although the suggestion was—was _absurd_ , he couldn’t help but imagine how it would feel to have Stark even closer – to feel the silky touch of his skin, the weight of his arm, the raspy sound of his breath.

“It’s a king-sized bed,” Stark added, quickly. “I’d stay in the opposite corner, you wouldn’t even know I was there. Four people could sleep on it like babies.” Steve widened his eyes, unable to stop himself from wondering if Stark knew that from first-hand experience. “Hell, I’ll build a pillow barrier between us if you want to. Or, or you can take the bed, and I’ll stay on the floor – hardly a first, for me.” He tilted his head, eyes shining with concern even as his voice lightened. “I just don’t think you should stay alone tonight.”

It was the honesty in his tone that threw Steve off. There was no trace of the occasional flirty demeanor Stark could show at times. Instead, he seemed sincerely worried, and Steve didn’t know what to say. He was not used to having people worry about him. Maybe he should have rejected that – fight against seeming so weak Stark apparently didn’t think he’d manage to sleep alone – but he felt disarmed, caught off-guard by Stark’s kindness.

And he was so, so tired.

He swallowed, angry at himself for knowing what he would say, well-aware he’d regret it deeply by the morning. “Okay.”

The small agreement weighed on his chest as Stark’s eyes widened, and Steve wanted to take it back, suddenly terrified of what it meant. But what was he scared of, anyway? Certainly, he didn’t believe Stark would jump him in his sleep or something, right?

 _And why would he do that, exactly_? A mean-spirited but reasonable voice echoed inside him. Stark clearly didn’t have trouble finding partners, and Steve had seen the type of men he usually brought home – a far cry from himself, definitely. Even if they slept together, what reason would he have to try anything?

 _A joke_ , that same voice supplied. _Maybe he’d seduce you just to prove he could._

 _That_ didn’t seem impossible – it was certainly what motivated Stark’s casual flirtations towards him on a daily basis, anyway – but somehow it didn’t match with the sincerity of Stark’s offer, or the gentle concern in his eyes. It would be too cruel, too _humiliating_ , for Stark to play with him right now, after everything that had already happened tonight. With a shock, Steve realized he didn’t believe Stark would be capable of that.

“Yeah?” Stark asked, and Steve was almost angry at him for doing so, because he didn’t want to have to agree one more time. He just wanted Stark to take his answer, hold his wrist, and—

 _And take you to bed? You know how this sounds, right_?

“I already told you,” Steve grunted. Then, after a second, he added, “You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

“Oh.” Stark blinked. He looked a little flabbergasted, and then swallowed, shaking his head. “Okay. Okay, uh—come with me, then, darling.”

Steve followed him. He barely paid attention in the bedroom, though; his eyes were immediately drawn to the huge bed in the middle, covered with layers of fancy, red bedding.

It was such a jarring sight, compared to Steve’s dirty, old futon, that his stomach twisted. Everything about the bed was decadent and so unlike himself that he couldn’t help but think _Stark_ was likely regretting it as well, only now realizing how out of place Steve would look amongit.

“Here,” Stark said, pulling the covers on one of the sides to clear up space for Steve. He smoothed out the pillow with fast strokes.

His hands were big, Steve noticed. They moved with innate elegance, but there was an undeniable strength to them, and he was reminded of the fact that Stark did some mechanic work at times. Heat curled low in his belly, and he thought, _What am I doing_?

“Steve?” Stark called, and when Steve looked up, his light blue eyes seemed hesitant again, and Steve couldn’t find it in himself to ask him to sleep on the floor. It would not be fair, and deep down, Steve couldn’t bear the thought of trying to spend the night on that bed alone.

He hurried to climb up, his muscles stiff as he lay down on the mattress. His body sank, but Steve found that it wasn’t too soft, which was a bit of a relief.

He could feel Stark’s gaze on him as he settled in. Hurriedly, he pulled the covers up, not wanting to feel exposed.

“Are you going to just stand there?” he asked after a moment, unable to actually look and face Stark’s eyes. Still, his heart beat steadily in his chest as he heard Stark’s low, surprised chuckle.

“Not a terrible idea, I suppose, but no, darling, I won’t.” Stark’s voice sent shivers down Steve’s neck as he climbed onto the bed. Steve’s face warmed and his breath shortened, even though Stark hadn’t lied about the mattress’ size. Still - he couldn’t feel Stark’s body next to his at all, but he could _imagine_ how it would feel, and that was somehow worse. “Everything okay?”

Steve took a deep breath, closing his eyes, and considered his question. His body was, against all odds, actually relaxing against the bed, and he could feel his eyelids getting a little heavier, the exhaustion of a terrible night finally hitting him.

“Yeah,” he muttered, and, although he kept his eyes closed, in his mind he could see Stark’s smile. It oddly made him want to smile back, and his mouth curled a little against his common sense.

“That’s… that’s great,” Stark said, and it was probably Steve’s imagination, but his voice sounded a little strangled. “I’ll turn the lights off, then, if it’s okay with you, darling. If… if you need anything, please, don’t hesitate to wake me up.”

Steve gave a stiff nod. Through his eyelids, he noticed when Stark turned off the lights, the darkness enveloping him.

“Goodnight,” Stark whispered, and his voice—it curled up around Steve like a rope, and he felt himself turning, wanting to come closer and yet frozen in place.

“G’night,” Steve grunted. In the dark, it was easy to remember the nightmares. They seemed more vivid, like actual danger.

He missed Stark’s eyes, and the touch of his hand on his hair.

His body moved almost without him noticing – and the keyword was _almost_ , really, because he knew what he was doing, couldn’t pretend he didn’t, as tempting as it was to blame it all on Stark, on his gentle smile and his warm voice and his… eyes. No, he couldn’t do it, because at the end he was being drawn to the warmth of Stark’s body, approaching his side of the bed like a moth to a flame, and as aware of the risk as one would be.

“Steve?” Stark asked, when it was undeniable Steve was getting closer. “Is everything okay?”

Steve’s knees reached the back of Stark’s thighs, and Steve stopped both moving and breathing.

“I--” he tried, without a clue of how to justify himself. His face burned hot with shame— _Stark_ had promised not to make things inappropriate, and, who would have known, he wasn’t the one who did. Steve shut his eyes and drew in a sharp breath, well aware of his humiliation, already waiting for Stark to turn on the lights. Maybe he’d laugh at Steve, or maybe pity would be written all over his face—Steve wasn’t sure of what would be worse. “’s cold,” he said, too surly for someone in his position, as if this was all Stark’s fault.

“Okay,” Stark replied, after a pause. Steve couldn’t imagine what he was thinking, and he found himself growing annoyed at his silence, wishing he could just put him out of his misery already. “Would you… Would you mind if I scooted a little closer?”

 _Yes, get the hell away from me_ , the proper answer echoed in Steve’s head, just as he actually opened his mouth to say, “No.” He swallowed. “It’s… fine.”

Stark moved a little closer, and then he stirred, turning towards Steve. In the dark, it was hard to see his face, but Steve could make some of his features, and just that already clutched his stomach, his heart rushing when he felt Stark’s breath brush his face.

“What if you turned around?” Stark whispered. Steve’s eyes widened. For a second he thought Stark would… But no – of course he wouldn’t, and Steve shouldn’t even think about that, because he’d push Stark away if he came any closer, wouldn’t he? And yet…

“You want me to leave?” he asked, hurt piercing through his chest like thorns. He blinked rapidly, schooling that pain into anger, because anger was better, was safer. “ _You_ asked me to—”

“No. No, darling,” Stark interrupted, light laughter in his voice, and Steve’s anger deflated. It was dangerous, how Stark could do this. “That’s the last thing I want you to do. I was just wondering if you’d want to turn around and then, maybe… I could come closer?”

Steve took a moment to understand. The thought of Stark’s body enveloped around him - his arm over his waist, his chest against his back – made him shudder. “You, you’d—”

“No one would see, you know,” Stark pointed out, right when Steve was thinking what a ridiculous picture they’d make, himself larger than Stark, being—being _held_ as if he was a baby. “Well, maybe Anthony, but he coughs up fur balls – he’s hardly in a place to judge.” He paused, then added, his voice much softer, “I wouldn’t tell anyone. But, of course, it’s just an idea – only if you want to.”

Steve swallowed. It’d be ridiculous, it’d be _wrong_ , but still yearning stretched in his chest, stubborn, growing more each time Steve tried to push it down. “Do _you_ want to?”

Stark was silent for a moment, and Steve almost yelled at him, for leading him on, for playing such a fucking _joke_ — “Yes, darling. I’d love to.”

Steve clenched his jaw. He turned, and then—

And then he felt when Stark’s body curled up around his—a warm, solid presence, unlike anything Steve had ever felt before. Stark’s arm was a light but undeniable weight over Steve’s waist, his hand lying almost over Steve’s belly, though never touching it. His knees found the back of his Steve’s thighs, and his breath brushed between Steve’s shoulder blades, and Steve’s back relaxed against his will, as if melting. His eyes were heavy, and his bones turned to dust, as if he was sinking, and Steve was shocked to realize he wanted it, wanted his body to melt against Stark’s shape, wanted it as he had never wanted anything else for a long, long time. For the first time in years, sinking in the dark didn’t seem scary.

Steve closed his eyes, a rebellious sigh leaving his lips without him meaning to.

“Everything okay?” Stark asked.

He asked that question a lot, Steve noticed. And he couldn’t bring himself to explain that yes, it was – everything was so much more than okay, and Steve’s heartbeat was steadying, and the images of the desert never seemed so distant.

“’s fine. Quit talking and go to sleep,” was what he ended up saying, and no one could have faulted Stark for losing his patience, but he didn’t. Instead, he chuckled—low, soft—a delicate sound, that Steve distantly thought he should do more often.

“As you wish, darling.”

Steve let the nickname wash over him, leaving warmth in its wake. He mouthed _thank you_ in silence, unable to say it aloud, and felt something curling up next to his feet – Anthony, he thought, forgetting to feign distance from the cat in his mind, and he sank in Stark’s embrace a little further, emboldened by the dark.

Sleep came quickly, and, even before he dosed off, Steve knew this time he’d have nice dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, it would make me really happy if you left kudos or a comment. You can also [reblog the fic on tumblr](https://elcorhamletlive.tumblr.com/post/189561818125/mock-me-with-praise-nanasekei-marvel-archive).


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